


A Nice Date (TM)

by beetle



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attraction, Banter, Boys Kissing, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Morning After, One Night Stands, Romance, Scott is awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: An unstoppable force and an immovable object go out on A Nice Date(TM), and . . . stopping happens. As does movement, and identical smirkles.





	A Nice Date (TM)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostofshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: All-human, Modern AU. No spoilers that I can think of, but there’s humor, fluff, _extremely light_ angst, a soupcon of smut, and date-y banter.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

 

At the low, teasing tenor, Scott Ryder starts, jerking his umbrella forward a bit. Chilly rain instantly sluices from the umbrella, and straight down the back of his head and the collar of his understated, heather-gray, dry clean-only sweater.

 

Because, _of course_.

 

Shuddering from the chill, he still manages to paste on a smile, even if it’s a bit of a grimace, as he turns to face his date. Standing just beyond Scott’s personal bubble, Reyes Vidal is dapper in a seemingly effortless way. His charcoal dinner jacket and matching slacks, and a chrome-gray shirt with a faint shimmer are slightly more formal than business casual, yet not as formal as a full suit. His umbrella is a gray that exactly matches the shirt, right down to the shimmer, and his shoes are a matte black, but still impeccable.

 

That crooked smirk—smile— _smirkle_?—is amused, but warm, those light green eyes startling and luminous in Reyes’s copper-toned skin, and in the dreary, rainy fall evening that surrounds them.

 

Scott swallows around a throat gone dry. It’s only been a few days, but he’d clearly forgotten just how stunning and attractive Reyes Vidal is. Though, admittedly, Scott’d been fairly tipsy that night, he hadn’t been _wasted_. And even if he had been, Scott can only imagine one would have to be black-out drunk, verging on death-by-alcohol-poisoning, to forget just how _breathtaking_ a man like Reyes is.

 

But then, considering that he really hadn’t expected to _ever_ hear from Reyes again after the stilted, awkward Morning After, Scott sort of suspects that he’s subconsciously downplayed both Reyes’s looks and charm, and the world-shattering revelation the whole night prior had been. Just to keep from eating his own heart out.

 

“Uh,” Scott mumbles, looking down and away from amused eyes that aren’t laughing _at_ him so much as _with_ him—or would be, if Scott were less nervous and pessimistic about his likelihood of not fucking up this unexpected first date. “I, heh, guess I am. Waiting for someone, that is.”

 

“I thought you might be.” Reyes chuckles richly, and it sends shivers racing up Scott’s spine that have nothing to do with the icy dribble of water from his umbrella. Well . . . _almost_ nothing. “If I may say, this person you’re waiting for is one lucky man.”

 

“Is that so?” Scott glances up at Reyes from under his lashes, unaware until he’s already done it just how coquettish and flirty it must come across . . . two things Scott Ryder _never_ is.

 

But _Reyes_ _is_ , as has been Scott’s limited experience, unreadable beyond his air of amusement and affability.

 

“Very much so, Ryder,” he purrs, his voice dropping into a slightly lower register. “Believe me, he’s feeling quite fortunate that you even returned his call, let alone agreed to extend your acquaintance. Rather . . . _I’m_ feeling fortunate,” he adds, briefly solemn, despite the smirkle, his eyes seeming to glow in the marquee lights of the independent cinema across the wide, rain-washed street.

 

According to that bright marquee, it’s showing _Plan 9 From Outer Space, Earth Vs. the Spider,_ and _Auntie Mame_.

 

Scott’s seen the first two, films—he, Sara, and Sam had grown up on such sci-fi fare, and more, besides—but not the third.

 

Reining his meandering, nervous gaze in, back to his smirkling date, Scott bites his lip and fights the automatic furrowing of his brow. “Fortunate, huh? To spend an evening squiring around the nerdy, awkward one-night stand you’re probably regretting letting follow you home?”

 

Reyes’s brow also furrows, then the right one quirks up. “Ryder, there are many things in my life I regret. Regret and I are . . . old chums, you might say. So, believe me when I say that regret has no place in what happened Tuesday night. At least not for me. Not so far, that is,” he adds dryly. It’s an opening, if a subtle one, for Scott to offer agreement.

 

But, as ever, he hesitates a bit too long, and the smirkle turns wry and a little rueful, before Reyes turns north, and nods down the street. “The restaurant is this way. Let’s not dawdle, or they’ll give away our table.”

 

Kicking himself for his complete lack of chill or even basic social grace, Scott hurries along after an already-strolling Reyes, umbrella bobbing, and doing his best to ignore the drizzle running down his collar once more.

 

#

 

“So, Ryder,” Reyes says after taking a clearly relieved sip of his scotch-neat. Scott, meanwhile takes a sip of his raspberry iced tea and tries on a smile that doesn’t feel too grimace-y, for once.

 

“Reyes,” he acknowledges, his voice surprisingly steady as those striking green eyes light on him with gentle consideration. The other man chuckles, then starts perusing his menu absently.

 

“Have you ever had Chilean cuisine before?”

 

“Um, no,” Scott says, glancing down at his menu. It’s entirely in Spanish and Scott can barely make out one word in twenty. Unlike Sara, he’d taken German in high school. Also, unlike Sara, he has little or no facility with foreign languages. He’s all left-brain. “Though, once, my ex-girlfriend, Cora, took me to this little Estonian place that had _really_ great soup.”

 

Reyes’s brows drift slowly up and his smirkle widens, but he doesn’t look away from his menu. “Well, then, you’re practically a _Chileno_ , yourself!” Another chuckle and those eyes finally do tick up to Scott’s, dancing and almost fond. Scott blushes, nonetheless, glad as always that it won’t show up on his sepia complexion. “I’m just teasing, Ryder. Tell me what kind of tastes you prefer—spicy, sweet, salty, sour, some combination of those—and let me order for you. You won’t regret it . . . I promise.”

 

Biting his lip again, Scott glances around them. The bistro, _Céntrico_ , is intimate, and almost every table is taken. The lighting is warm and low, without being dim, and the hum of the restaurant is level to the point of being white noise. Servers in black and white bustle in between the well-spaced tables, taking orders and bringing meals.

 

“Um. I, uh . . . I’m partial to salty and sweet. Together or separately.” Scott smiles and shrugs as he looks back at Reyes and finds the other man watching him curiously. “Can’t really handle spicy, though. I mean, a little . . . but a light dusting of red pepper flakes on my pizza is about my limit.”

 

“Why, Ryder . . . such an unadventurous and Americanized palate!” Reyes tsks, sounding faintly aghast, but mostly just amused. “We’ll have to see about broadening it.”

 

Scott’s brows lift and he flushes, his eyes dropping to his menu, even though he can’t make heads or tails of it. “I’d say you’re off to a pretty good start, after the other night. I can’t say that my, um, palate’s ever been broadened quite like _that_ , before.”

 

Silence reigns for half a minute. When Scott feels Reyes’s gaze on him, he finally looks up again. Those luminous eyes meet his, curious and questioning, amusement shelved for _bemusement_.

 

“Let me guess: Your first-time bottoming?” Reyes asks kindly, but not _too_ kindly. There’s no pity or condescension in his question. No sarcasm, either, just interest and wistfulness. Scott shrugs, his flush deepening as he holds Reyes’s gaze.

 

“Yep. First time with another guy, period, actually,” Scott admits, to a slight furrow of Reyes’s brow, and the replacement of the smirkle with a crooked, but pleased smile.

 

“I had no idea,” he says softly. Scott snorts.

 

“Neither did I,” he mutters, still torn between exasperation and bemusement over this . . . unexpected facet of his sexuality.

 

The crow’s feet bracketing Reyes’s eyes deepen, as do the smile lines at either side of his mouth. “I meant I’d had no idea that . . . you’d never been with another man at all.”

 

“Yeah, well . . . I’m sure I totally made that night worth your while, with my amateur-hour blowjob and near-panic attack when you started the . . . palate-broadening,” he says with dry self-mockery, shaking his head at the slightly fuzzy-edged memory—fuzzy more because of the dim lighting in Reyes’s impeccably stylish bedroom, than because of his tipsiness—of his own literal shakes as Reyes had carefully prepared him, then penetrated him. All with a tenderness, sweetness, and patience that’d had Scott near tears for the first taste of any of those things experienced with a lover since . . . ever. “I’d have thought my . . . lack of experience would be obvious. And possibly a turn-off.”

 

Reyes chuckles a little. “Ryder, in case no one’s ever bothered to inform you, there’s, ah . . . _nothing_ about you that’s a turn-off. And certainly not the fact that of all the guys you _could’ve_ picked to be _that guy_ —the _someone_ you trusted to make your first time worth it—you chose me. _Trusted_ me.”

 

“Well,” Scott says, a bit gruff, and rattled at such a sincere and honest answer, from such a glib and—Scott senses—secretive sort of man. But he’s cautiously pleased, nonetheless. “I mean, _yeah_ , you’re . . . the most gorgeous person I’ve _ever_ seen. And there’s no _even though_ attached to that. The fact that you’re a guy only _adds_ to your incandescent hotness. That’s . . . a first for me. And you’re smart and funny, cultured and well-rounded, but down to Earth and easy to just . . . be around. Or with. Also. . . .” biting his lip yet again, Scott hesitates for a few moments, then sighs. “You’re the first person I’ve met in a long time who actually feels like _someone_ to me. And, certainly, the realest person I’ve met since moving here. You made _me_ feel like I was real, too . . . like, you _saw_ me. I haven’t felt that way at all since I left San Diego.”

 

Reyes’s face is attentive through this halting admission, but otherwise still unreadable. Scott shrugs and looks down again.

 

“So. Anyway. Yeah. I don’t often run on gut-instinct—I’ve kinda made my living off being logical and methodical . . . geologist, after all—but sometimes, that instinct is so strong, it’s impossible to fight. Especially when I . . . really, _really_ don’t want to.” Scott falls silent and rearranges his silverware. Then re-rearranges it back the way it’d been.

 

“I’m . . . flattered, Ryder,” Reyes says in that same soft tone. Any other tone would make such a statement sarcastic or wry, but that surprising earnestness shines through and makes Scott risk another glance up. Reyes is frowning down at his menu—not in displeasure, but almost in confusion. “Flattered and . . . _honored_.”

 

And there goes Scott’s face again. Probably red enough that it _does_ show up, despite his dark skin. “You—you don’t have to say that, just because I was—sorta—a virgin, Reyes. . . .”

 

“You chose me, Scott,” Reyes says again, still soft and solemn, his gaze flicking up to Scott’s and holding it. _Commanding_ it. “Out of all the men and women at _Tartarus_ , drooling and tripping over their feet to cozy up to you from the moment you walked in, you chose _me_. Talked to _me_. Went home with _me_.”

 

Scott shakes his head in good-natured befuddlement. “Uhhhh . . . men and women drooling and tripping over _me_? You and I remember that portion of the evening _very_ differently.”

 

“And aside from the fact that you’re boyishly handsome and intimidatingly intelligent, you’re also earnest, and refreshingly modest about how . . . _attractive_ you are. That’s not something I see very often. It— _you_ intrigue me.”

 

Both anticipating and dreading the moment that intent gaze lets him go, Scott scoffs weakly, uncertainly. “I’m a socially awkward, perennially nerdy, rocks-and-dirt _geek_ , who’s only ever had one relationship. And a grand total of _three_ sexual partners. Plus, in related news, I wear _actual pocket-protectors_ at the office and sometimes in the field. And maybe at home, too.” He snorts. “I’m no prize, Reyes.”

 

Those expressive brows lift again. “Then why do I increasingly feel as if I’ve . . . won something special?”

 

“Maybe you’re just picking up on what _I’m_ projecting? Which is that _I’ve_ lucked-onto someone I . . . logically should have _no chance_ with. Empathy’s a bitch, huh?” Scott’s smile is limp and ironic, his blush almost painful. “Anyway, I’m surprised you even asked for my number, let alone used it.”

 

“Are you?” Reyes’s voice is low and insinuating, his eyes searching. The smile widens and he looks back down at his menu. “Hmm,” he hums, tapping his lower lip with one manicured finger. “The salmon and chicken here are especially fantastic. Any preference?”

 

Scott blinks, refocuses his mind on dinner and the choosing thereof, and tries to lay the previous subject to rest. It’s difficult, and his reply is a bit lagging. “Uh . . . I’m a sucker for good salmon.”

 

“You continue to be a man after my own heart.” Reyes’s lips twitch. “What about carbs? How do you like those? Grainy? Starchy? Mushy?”

 

“Um . . . surprise me?”

 

Reyes smirkles absently. “Fair enough.”

 

Less than a minute later, during which Reyes peruses the menu thoughtfully, their server, a youngish guy with curly dark hair and a complexion somewhere between Scott’s sepia and Reyes’s copper, reappears. He smiles at Scott, who smiles back, then nods at Reyes, addressing him in deferential Spanish. Reyes nods back, and places his and Scott’s order. A minute after his arrival, the server— _Esteban_ , per his nametag—is gone once again, their menus in hand.

 

And Reyes is giving Scott an approving and appreciative gaze.

 

Finally, he chuckles, low and warm, and takes another sip of his scotch. “So, geology, eh Ryder? How does one fall into such a career?”

 

“Oh . . . decent study habits, an appreciation of scientific method, a father one wants desperately to emulate and make proud . . . plus a painfully shy, largely-friendless childhood featuring many and varied living spaces and schools. Basically wherever the interesting rocks turned up. . . .” Scott adds, shrugging. “ _Et voila_! A can’t-fail, no-bake recipe for one slightly neurotic, habitually mono-focused geologist.”

 

“Hmm . . . but at least it’s a nice living, if you can get it, though? I hope?” The twinkle in Reyes’s eyes is playful but empathizing.

 

“Eh, sure. My needs are simple and inexpensive, and run mostly toward take-out, video games, and Comic Cons. Geology keeps me in the geekish lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed.” With another shrug, Scott smiles tentatively, but genuinely, and takes a sip of his iced tea. It’s gone slightly watery from melting ice cubes. When he’s done chewing on one of those cubes and admiring Reyes’s return smile, he clears his throat. “And you’re, um, a pilot, if I remember correctly?”

 

Reyes nods. “You do, indeed. I used to fly cargo planes after a stint in the Air Force, but eventually got bored with the . . . lack of intellectual stimulation, lucrative though international shipping was. I . . . managed to talk my way under my manager’s, er . . . wing. And her manager. And his manager. And so on, until, well, long story short . . . _my_ shipping company recently bought out the company I used to run cargo for.” That smirkle is back, both predatory and pleased. On anyone else, it’d be unattractive, to the point of maybe being a red flag.

 

But on Reyes, it’s as endlessly sexy and arresting an expression as all his others.

 

Scott gulps, realizing that even after just one— _amazing_ —night spent under Reyes Vidal, having his palate broadened, and now _barely_ into their first actual date. . . .

 

 _I’ve got it bad, already_ , he’s dismayed to admit to himself.

 

“Is there any way in which you’re _not_ ridiculously impressive?” Scott asks before he can censor himself, and Reyes laughs, long and pleased.

 

“None that I’m aware of,” he replies, when his laughter finally tapers off. Esteban hustles by at that moment and Reyes signals him with his mostly empty glass. The server nods and course-corrects for the bar. Reyes’s relaxed and fond gaze settles on Scott again. “Stick around for a bit, though, and perhaps you’ll . . . discover something that surprises us both.”

 

“I’m just curious enough to take you up on that, maybe. For science,” Scott adds disingenuously. Reyes snorts, but his eyes are smoldering and intense . . . another stare Scott can’t break free of, not that he’s inclined to try. It’s the same yearning-searching gaze he can remember locking on three nights ago, as Reyes pinned his right wrist to the bed, and pushed his left leg up and out, each thrust seemingly deeper and harder—more _devastating_ than the last.

 

And yet, still not quite as devastating as that _gaze_ . . . which Scott had held until Reyes had let go of his wrist and grabbed his cock. Between forceful-intense-fast stroking and deep-hard-relentless thrusting—between the near-constant prostate stimulation and Reyes’s breathless running commentary on how hot-tight- _perfect_ Scott was—Scott’d come almost embarrassingly quickly, but meeting those thrusts and holding that gaze until he did, nonetheless.

 

“Science. Of _course_.” Reyes toasts Scott and finishes the last swallow of his scotch. After that—and some subtle, but unmistakable eye-fucking that continues until Esteban arrives with Reyes’s second scotch, then whisks the empty glass away—Reyes turns the discussion back to geology, his gaze mellowing graciously.

 

Scott, faintly surprised, since no one, not even his colleagues, _ever_ wants to talk geology when they don’t _have_ to, allows the change of subject and of gaze with deep, but restless relief.

 

#

 

“. . . and since I’m a man of my word, or try to be, the next day, I was at a local tattoo parlor, checking out fonts and deciding what typeface I wanted my brother’s eternal perfidy to be displayed in,” Scott finishes, shrugging and scratching at the long-since healed tattoo on his left bicep in crisp, black ink.

 

Reyes chuckles, taking a bite of his smoked salmon. Scott, who has the same dish, does the same, letting the flaky, lemony fish practically dissolve on his tongue.

 

“But what possessed him to pick **_Thug Life, Yo!_** as a lifelong brand on _you_?” Reyes asks and Scott sighs, laughing a little.

 

“Sam’s . . . a weird kid. _Really_ weird. Really _smart_ —he just turned seventeen, but he earned his first PhD before I did, and is currently working on his third—but he’s definitely a strange kid. He’s got no apparent sense of humor, until you trip over it randomly, like a fallen rake in an overgrown yard.” Scott snorts and shakes his head. “Plus, underneath all the eerie maturity and frightening genius, he’s still a spoiled brat with older siblings who’re entirely responsible for said spoiling.”

 

“Entirely? I take it, then, your parents were . . . a bit austere?” Reyes’s brows lift in gently curious question. Scott’s smile falters a bit, but he quickly props it back up.

 

“Nah . . . not exactly. My parents . . . they had several miscarriages early in their marriage. Eventually, they stopped trying to have children the old-fashioned way and decided to adopt.” Scott quirks his eyebrows at Reyes’s surprised blink. “According to Mom, she and Dad fell instantly in love with pictures of Sara and I. Flew all the way to Bangladesh to meet us in person and put the seal on the adoption deal. Brought us back to the States where we became, in our own weird, semi-stable way, a happy family. And then Mom got pregnant again when Sara and I were fifteen.”

 

Scott pauses, looking down at his plate. He pokes his _humitas_ with his fork, before securing a mouthful of baked corn goodness. Reyes watches him patiently, through two mouthfuls, and when Scott looks up again, it’s to solemn and attentive interest.

 

“Mom’s doctors were . . . pretty insistent that she not try to carry the baby to term. She was almost fifty, by that point, and her health was already . . . iffy. And though they didn’t really discuss that part of it with Sara and I, _Dad_ was insistent that Mom listen to her doctors. But she was determined. The Harlow side of the family is full of stubborn, hot-tempered, big-hearted pains in the ass. And she knew, somehow, that this pregnancy would be different. She was right, too. Uh.” Scott frowns then sighs, drumming his blunt fingers on the edge of the table as his gaze skitters off to the bar. The brief hall that leads to the restrooms. The hostess’s stand near the entrance. Back to Reyes. “The baby, Sam, was born a bit early, but healthy as a horse. Mom, unfortunately, didn’t survive his birth. Dad . . . kinda shut down after that. Buried himself even deeper in his work. Sara and I raised Sam more directly than he did—and it wasn’t easy. By the time Sammy was in grad school—at nine—Dad was dead, too. Just went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up the next morning.”

 

Reyes is frowning now, too, and starts to say something, but Esteban shows up at that moment, asking something in Spanish. Nodding absently, his eyes never leaving Scott’s, Reyes holds up his glass and murmurs: “ _Si, bueno. Gracias_. _Uno mas, por favor?”_

 

“ _Si, claro, señor_.”

 

Then Esteban is gone, and Reyes finishes his scotch thoughtfully, still not releasing Scott’s gaze. When the glass is empty, he finally speaks.

 

“And . . . how long has it been since you and your siblings were . . . on your own?”

 

“Sara and I were twenty-five, so . . . seven years, going on eight.” Somehow managing to tear his gaze away at last, Scott watches Esteban approach with Reyes’s fifth scotch-neat. Then, when the drink is delivered and the old glass spirited away, he aims his eyes at his plate once more. But instead of eating, he sighs again. “Since then, it’s just been the three of us, muddling through and doing the best we can. Sometimes, Sara and I still have to be _Mom and Dad_ for Sam, but as he gets older, we’re mostly just his lame, dumb, embarrassing older sibs. Which is kinda nice, after everything, and . . . as it should be. And Sammy still gets _whatever_ he wants . . . even if that _whatever_ means I have to walk around with a seventeen years old boy’s idea of _funny_ in really nice Copperplate on my arm for keeps.”

 

“I’m . . . sorry your life’s been so difficult,” Reyes says after watching Scott for long enough that Scott, despite keeping his eyes firmly on his half-full plate, begins to _feel_ that considering gaze like bright moonlight.

 

“Ah. Not difficult, _per se_. Considering where I was born and spent the first seven months of my life . . . things could’ve been a lot worse for me. My life hasn’t been difficult at all, just . . . sad, in places. And occasionally a bit more painful than I was certain I could handle.” Smiling gamely, Scott meets Reyes’s kind, intent gaze once more. The smile widens and becomes a bit more genuine. “But no matter what, I always had Sara. And then Sammy. And I always will. I’m . . . a lucky man, all told.”

 

“That’s—” Reyes shakes his head, bemused once more. “ _You’re_ refreshingly optimistic and hopeful. Determined and . . . quietly unstoppable, in your own way. I . . . must confess to finding your outlook, attitude, and strength of character . . . even more intensely intriguing, now.”

 

Blinking and surprised, Scott blushes again. “I . . . wow. I don’t know what to say to that. I’m fairly mediocre in general, as far as _I_ can tell. And I’m not being self-effacing or self-deprecating, just callin’ it like I see it. I’m not anyone special, Reyes.”

 

“We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that, Ryder.” That smirkle is back and challenging. Scott rolls his eyes, but laughs a little.

 

“It would appear that if I’m unstoppable, then you’re . . . _immovable_ ,” he says dryly, and Reyes grins, showing off perfect, white teeth.

 

“Oh . . . I’ve been known to move, when given the right . . . incentives and motivations.” Cue a pointed once-over that warms Scott’s entire body with something that’s not a blush. No, it’s more like . . . a scalding tsunami of pure and concentrated _want_.

 

“And I’ve, uh . . . definitely been stopped in my tracks, once or twice. Quite recently, too.” Scott serves that once-over right back at Reyes, not bothering to hide his tidal-wave desire.

 

That grin widens, then shifts back into the expected smirkle as Reyes toasts him elegantly.

 

Wearing a smirkle of his own, small and unaccustomed, Scott tucks back into his dinner and Reyes follows suit. The rest of the meal is peppered with inconsequentials and rehashings of current events, amusing stories from their pasts—though Reyes’s are a bit vague in places and Scott senses that his date’s life has featured some rather extra-legal shenanigans—and frequent eye-contact.

 

At some point, two-thirds of the way through the meal, Reyes’s hand settles on Scott’s as easily as if it’d never belonged anywhere else. Scott flushes and completely loses track of his point regarding an article both he and Reyes had read in the latest issue of _Popular Mechanics_ , stammering and mumbling while trying not to stare at the warm, slightly larger hand on his own tingling one.

 

Reyes, meanwhile, simply smirkles like a man who’s got a delicious and risqué secret.

 

#

 

When they step out of _Céntrico_ , the chilly rain has lightened to a persistent drizzle, rather than the sheeting annoyance of earlier.

 

Scott doesn’t even bother with the umbrella that’s now closed and dangling from his wrist by its loop—he rarely does, anyway—but Reyes puts his up over them both, offering the same arm to Scott.

 

“I’m not a girl, y’know,” Scott says, even as he takes Reyes’s arm. Reyes chuckles, and covers Scott’s hand with his own, like an old-fashioned gentleman.

 

“I’m _quite_ aware of that, Ryder. You’ve given me incontrovertible proof of your . . . not-girlness, after all.” Reyes’s sidelong glance is arch and ironic.

 

“You’re a shameless flirt, Mr. Vidal,” Scott accuses, and they both laugh.

 

The silence that accompanies them on their stroll toward the nearby municipal parking lot and the adjacent light rail stop, is comfortable and charged, simultaneously. They pass under the marquee of the independent cinema—there’s still one more showing of _Auntie Mame,_ starting in another seventeen minutes, according to the times next to the title—and Scott blinks in the wash of light and smiles. He glances at Reyes and finds the other man staring at him almost somberly.

 

“I haven’t seen _Auntie Mame_ in forever. And a life without Rosalind Russell at frequent intervals is _not_ a life worth living,” Reyes rumbles at the same time Scott fairly squeaks: “Hey, wanna see this _Auntie Mame_ -flick? ‘Cause, I’ve never seen it and I’m kinda curious.”

 

Stopping just under the marquee and in front of the box office, they stare at each other for a minute, until Scott blushes and clears his throat, and Reyes smirkles slow and smug.

 

“Uh, who’s Rosalind Russell?” Scott asks, not because he cares at the moment, but because the question he _really_ wants to ask feels, even now, risky and overwhelming.

 

“Why, Ryder . . . your palate needs even _more_ broadening than I imagined!” Reyes says, chuckling merrily. “Also, if I didn’t know better . . . I’d swear you were trying to extend our date by the most convenient and innocuous means at hand.”

 

“Well. It _is_ Friday night, after all,” Scott finally sputters, going for casual, but probably just sounding defensive. His face is hotter than a five-alarm fire. “Date night _and_ movie-night, conventionally. We’ve already done the former, so maybe we could do the latter if you’re not in a hurry to go home? I mean, it's late but, uh, _I_ don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow morning and if you don’t, either—”

 

“Scott,” Reyes says, somber once again, but a tad uncertain, too, then his smirkle relaxes into a hopeful smile. “The only thing I have planned for tomorrow morning is making you a _big_ , Chilean breakfast. Or brunch, if you’re . . . a late sleeper.”

 

His own smirkle shining out now, Scott leans closer to Reyes. “You know I am. At least after a really great evening of . . . having my palate broadened in _multiple_ ways.”

 

“You . . . are absolutely _magical_ , Scott Ryder,” Reyes murmurs in a voice gone strangely rough. Then he’s closing the distance between them quickly, capturing Scott’s mouth in a kiss that’s soft and chaste . . . until it’s not anymore. It isn’t long before Reyes is kissing Scott as if he’s starving and thirsting, and Scott’s mouth is an eight-course meal complete with champagne. His free arm wraps around Scott’s waist, his hand warm on the small of Scott’s back, but inching obviously lower.

 

Scott moans into the kiss and bobs up on his toes to mitigate the two-inch height-difference between them. Incidentally, that means Reyes’s hand is now on the curve of his ass: light, then heavy, then _grasping_ quite possessively. He rumbles and groans low in his chest, and squeezes Scott closer, not at all shy about his half-hard state, nor put-off by Scott’s.

 

One hand clenching on Reyes’s bicep, Scott’s _other_ hand settles on Reyes’s chest, sliding hesitantly up to clutch at the back of his neck, when—

 

—Reyes suddenly tenses then shudders, breaking the kiss with a look of annoyance on his face as he glances up. There’s rainwater dribbling down his nose and temple from his slightly askew umbrella. Scott snickers and reaches up to brush away the water as Reyes sighs, and straightens the umbrella so that they’re both sheltered, once more.

 

Even after Scott’s lightly dashed away the droplets, he lets his fingers linger, then cups Reyes’s face wonderingly. Reyes smiles, open and delighted, before stealing another kiss. This one is slow and sweet—not nearly as hungry and intense as the last one—but somehow, it’s still the best kiss of Scott’s limited experience. It leaves him with legs that are less than stable, and a facial expression that feels so dazed and gobstruck, he’s glad he can’t see it.

 

“ _Arroz con huevos_ and _marraqueta_ , with mashed avocado, I’m thinking,” Reyes muses, in a thick, breathless voice that shakes just a bit. It takes Scott more than few moments to put the statement into proper context, and when he finally opens his eyes, Reyes’s lips are twitching as if a wide smirkle is, indeed, imminent. “And mimosas, too. Simple fare, but filling and delicious. In the meantime, however,” he says almost regretfully, but definitely firm, “in the meantime, a staple film from Hollywood’s Golden Age awaits.”

 

And with that—plus a final, promising squeeze of Scott’s ass—Reyes lets Scott go and puts a bit of space between them, executing a shallow, but charming bow. Scott has to stifle a snorting giggle when more rainwater dribbles down Reyes’s head and face, from the umbrella that’s now only covering Scott, completely.

 

“If you’ll allow me,” Reyes says smoothly, offering his arm once more and ignoring the rain wetting his face and shoulders. At this, Scott _does_ snort. But he also takes the arm with a faux-weary sigh.

 

“I think me _allowing_ _you_ is a foregone conclusion, Mr. Vidal,” he says, and the smirkle he gets in response is _very_ wide. “Also? _Still_ not a girl.”

 

“ _Continuous_ proof, or it didn’t happen, Ryder,” Reyes tells him quite contritely. Then he leads Scott to the box office, where a wide-eyed ticket-taker, probably only slightly older than Sam, has apparently been watching them like they’re pay-per-view. Scott shrugs, putting on his most innocent and oblivious face.

 

“Like, I’m not even gay, bro, but that was romantic _and_ ridiculously hot. For serious,” the kid informs them, shaking his messy/shaggy—dyed green—head, his mournful blue eyes ticking from Reyes to Scott and back. Where it _lingers_. Scott laughs and shrugs again, glancing at the kid’s nametag.

 

“I feel ya, Dylan. I’m not gay either—or I _wasn’t_. And then. . . .” he smirks, leans into Reyes, and lets a telling beat pass before he goes on. “Kinda can’t take _that_ stance, anymore. I guess that’s just the effect this shady, yet handsome bastard has on _everyone_ , orientation aside.”

 

“ _Werd_.” Dylan sighs heavily, then pouts, looking both dismayed and envious as he tries to stop staring at Reyes, and only partially succeeds. “Uh, so. What show?”

 

“Two for _Auntie Mame_ , please,” Reyes says, his voice shaking again, this time with repressed laughter. Then, once they have their tickets and are strolling past the box office, he leans close to whisper in Scott’s ear on a warm, teasing breath: “You’re a _terrible_ person, Ryder.”

 

“That, I am.” Scott beams at his date and bounces up to kiss his cheek. “I _tried_ to tell you earlier, but you wouldn’t listen. FYI, Reyes: You have _really_ bad taste in men.”

 

“The worst, Scott,” Reyes agrees, his tone warm and contented as he kisses Scott’s temple, lingering to murmur: “We _both_ do, I suppose. Lucky us, eh?”

 

This time, _Scott’s_ lips tremble with repressed laughter. “ _Werd_.”

 

Chuckling, and with matching bad taste _and_ matching good luck—still arm in arm—they saunter off toward palate-broadening and a life worth living . . . with feet that barely touch the ground, and wearing identical, _smug_ smirkles all the way.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Ghostofshe’s prompt: _Reyes/Ryder having a nice date??_
> 
> Also? I’m on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com), yo!


End file.
